Chapter 31 Mehar
MEHAR
Yesterday evening, after he ate my pussy off the bone, we went out to dinner to talk. I’d completely thrown caution to the wind and started opening up more and more to him. If this blew up in my face though…I was shooting him in his.
I know that sounds harsh but I cannot take another man playin’ with me again. I was not some doll to be plucked off the shelf, toyed with, head removed and thrown out once I got all battered and bruised.
There was something about Quest that I felt like I could trust. But I felt that way about Thad. At least it was established now. No one fucks with me and gets away with it.
Quest had secrets though. I could tell he’d been damaged in ways that are unspeakable.
And just as he’s holding his cards close to his heart, I’m holding mine.
I could never tell him that I spent my nights moonlighting as a dominatrix.
He wouldn’t understand it. And with his possessive and protective nature, he wouldn’t be able to stand it.
But this is my body. These are my choices and I need this one thing that makes me feel the biggest and the baddest.
Today was a chill day for me. No school, no clients, and nothing on the schedule.
I watered my plants, cooked a big breakfast—cheesy grits, salmon cakes and a yogurt parfait, cleaned the apartment and finally did a yoga session that I found on YouTube.
And between every chore my brain indulged in the memory of Quest Banks between my thighs, tasting me like I was a decadent feast for a famished warrior.
Like eating my pussy was a prize he fought for.
I wanted it again. And again.
Just as I was about to fill my time with something else to do to get my mind off of him, my phone buzzed.
It was Bryce texting me.
Bryce: Yo sis. I’m have b-day party at my apartment this weekend. It’s something real chill. You can meet Samaya. Come and bring Zainab.
Me: I’m there. Can’t wait to meet her.
Bryce: Coo ttys
I was happy that my little brother was back in my life. At some point maybe I’d have the strength to go to Baltimore and visit the rest of my siblings. I even missed my mom sometimes. But I didn’t want to talk to her until she was ready to leave Ahmad.
On second thought, maybe I should avoid Baltimore. I was just attacked by Lucian, who I could handle if need be. But it did feel good for Quest to stand up for me. And I knew that he didn’t plant Lucian there like Thad planted that guy to attack me that day after I left Sweet Zin.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Quest.
Quest: You got something to wear for my grandma’s birthday?
Me: No. Haven’t thought about it yet.
Quest: Get dressed. I’m scooping you.
Me: For what?
Quest: Shopping. You need an outfit and I need to see you. Two birds.
Me: I’m a grown woman. I can handle a mall.
Quest: Good for you. Get dressed. 20 minutes.
I stared at the phone and shook my head because this man was relentless. But I was already in my closet pulling out jeans and a crop top before I’d even decided to say yes, which told me everything I needed to know about how far gone I was.
He pulled up in exactly twenty minutes. I got in the Maybach and he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world and I let him because it was starting to feel that way.
“You smell good,” he said.
“I just got out the shower.”
“Even better.”
We drove to Tysons Galleria. We walked into Nordstrom and he had his hand on the small of my back, which was a gesture I would’ve flinched at a month ago, but now it made me feel anchored instead of caged. Progress.
We browsed for about ten minutes. He pointed out a few dresses that were too conservative, I pointed out a few that were too revealing for a grandmother’s birthday party, and we went back and forth until he suddenly steered me away from the racks and toward the back of the store.
“Where are we going?”
“I need to show you something.”
“Show me what? The fitting rooms are over there.”
He didn’t answer. Just guided me down a corridor past the alterations desk and through a door marked “Private Restroom.” He locked it behind us.
It was a single room with a marble countertop, full-length mirror, soft lighting, and enough space to move around in. Nicer than most people’s bathrooms at home.
“Quest, what are you…”
He was already on his knees.
“We are in a Nordstrom.”
“I’m aware.” His hands were on my waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans. “I’ve been thinking about my Peach since yesterday and I can’t walk around this mall for two hours pretending I’m focused on dresses when all I can think about is how you taste.”
“You are insane.”
“Maybe.” He unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down to my thighs along with my underwear in one motion. “But you’re not stopping me.”
He was right. I wasn’t stopping him. I was gripping the edge of the marble countertop and watching him in the mirror and my heart was hammering and we were in a public restroom in Nordstrom at Tysons Galleria and I should’ve been mortified but instead I was spreading my legs wider to give him better access because this man had rewired something in my brain.
He pressed his mouth against me and I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.
“Uh uh,” he said against my pussy, his breath warm. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”
“We’re in public, Quest.”
“Then be quiet-loud. That’s a thing, right?” He licked me slow and deliberate and my knees buckled slightly. He caught my hip with one hand to steady me. “There she is. My pretty little peach. Been waiting for this all morning.”
He ate me like he had all the time in the world and we weren’t in a bathroom that someone could knock on at any second. Slow, savoring, talking between every stroke.
“You know what I love about you?” Lick. “You act so tough.” Lick. “So hard.” Lick. “But right here, like this, you’re so soft for me. This pussy is so soft for me, Peach.”
My hand went to his head, and as I gripped my back arched against the mirror. I could see us in the reflection, him on his knees in his designer clothes on a marble floor, me half-undressed with my head thrown back and my mouth open. It was obscene and beautiful and I was going to hell.
He picked up the pace, his tongue relentless on my clit, and I could feel the orgasm building fast because the adrenaline of being somewhere we shouldn’t be was amplifying everything by a factor of ten.
“Quest, I’m gonna…”
“Give it to me. Quick though, Peach. We got shopping to do.” He sucked my clit into his mouth and I came so hard my legs gave out completely. He caught me with both hands on my hips and held me up while I shook, my hand over my mouth, muffling the sounds that were trying to escape.
He kissed my inner thigh, pulled my jeans back up, buttoned them for me, and stood.
“Go ahead out before me,” he said. “I’ll find you in the shoe section.”
“You’re so nasty.”
“You’re welcome.” He kissed my forehead. “Go. And try to walk normal.”
I unlocked the door, checked the hallway to make sure nobody was waiting, and slipped out on legs that were still trembling. I was smoothing my hair and trying to look like a woman who had not just been devoured in a Nordstrom bathroom when I turned the corner and walked directly into someone.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I—”
I stopped. The woman standing in front of me was Janelle. My therapist. In Nordstrom. Fifteen feet from the bathroom I’d just walked out of with wobbly legs and a flushed face.
“Hey…” Janelle said. Her expression was polite but guarded.
“Janelle! Hey, I—”
“I’m sorry.” She held up her hand gently and took a small step back.
“I should let you know that as your therapist, it’s standard practice that we don’t acknowledge each other in public settings.
It’s to protect your privacy. If someone saw us speaking and asked how we knew each other, it could compromise the confidentiality of our therapeutic relationship. ”
“Oh.” I blinked. “I didn’t know that.”
“It’s okay. Most clients don’t until it comes up. It’s not personal at all. I just want to make sure you feel safe knowing that your privacy is always my priority, even outside the office.” She smiled warmly. “I’ll see you at our next session.”
She walked past me toward the escalator and disappeared into the crowd of shoppers like she was just another woman at the mall on a Saturday.
I stood there for a second feeling oddly dismissed but also understanding why.
It made sense. If someone I knew saw me chatting with a woman and later found out she was my therapist, they’d know I was in therapy.
And if they dug deeper, they’d know what kind of therapy.
And from there the dominoes could fall in directions I didn’t want them to go.
I pulled out my phone and Googled “can therapists talk to you in public” while I walked toward the shoe section.
The first three results all said the same thing—most therapists follow a policy of not initiating contact with clients outside of sessions to protect confidentiality.
Some will acknowledge a client if the client approaches first, but many prefer to let the client take the lead.
Janelle was being professional. That’s all.
I put my phone away and went to look at shoes. By the time Quest found me ten minutes later, I had three pairs of heels in my hand and legs that had finally stopped shaking.
“You find something?” he asked, looking at the shoes.
“Maybe. I still need the dress though.”
“We’ll find it.” He looked at me with that half-smile. “You look flushed.”
“Shut up.”
“Just making an observation.”
We spent the next hour shopping like a normal couple and I tried not to think about the fact that nothing about us was normal and that was exactly why it worked.